Smiling in Charming
by SmilingTeller
Summary: Tig and Deputy Hale battle for the affections of a mysterious Charming newcomer. First FF in a while so please review :).


The vibrating of the phone on the bedside cabinet woke Clay from his slumber. He groaned, and picked it up to stare with bleary eyes at the screen as it flashed a name at him. Grunting, he rejected the call and fell back onto the pillows, falling back to sleep as he curled an arm around Gemma. By morning, that display would show twenty missed calls, and nineteen voicemails.

The clubhouse was just off the main road, a dusty patch of ground surrounded by motorcycles of different varieties and ages. Cigarette ends and the stubs of joints littered the ground, blowing gently across the sand-coloured dust in the breeze. From the clubhouse came the familiar noise of an old jukebox being kicked, and a hubbub of discussion. Usually a rowdy environment, the clubhouse was muted as the amassed men and women sat in quiet discussion around wooden tables, drinking and smoking.

"What are we going to do, Jury? This son of a bitch got us caught in a real tight bind," murmured an older man in a leather cut, stubbing out a cigarette into an ashtray with yellowed fingers. Jury, sat next to him, ran a hand through his thinning grey hair.

"I got no clue. I tried Clay, but what more can I do? If he ain't gonna help us, I don't know where we go from here."

"What do you mean, if he ain't gonna help us? He's our brother, he's gotta sort this shit out man!" This from a younger man, in a denim cut with 'Prospect' clearly labelled on the left hand side.

"You shut your mouth, Prospect," drawled a female voice from the neighbouring table. "Ain't nothing gonna happen without Clay stepping in. Shit, what would he do without us?" A siren began to wail nearby, and Jury's hand trembled on his glass as he stood up slowly. The room instantly fell silent as their president stood.

"This is it, guys and gals. Drink up, stay strong, and we'll see each other again some day I know." The company touched glasses with other members of their tables, and sadly tipped their heads back. Some looked angry, others relieved, but all were resigned. The female voice spoke once again,

"They'll get us out. Charming will come. You'll see."

"Any other business fellas, or can we go and enjoy the rest of this goddamn day?" Clay had the gavel already in his hand, ready to knock onto the wooden base. The rest of his brothers shook their heads, looked around the room at each other, and then looked back to Clay. "Alright then. Meeting adjourned." The gavel knocked loudly onto the table, wooden and hollow sounding. Chairs scraped back and the men began to spill out, extinguishing cigarettes and discussing what they were planning to do. Juice was going to go fishing, and Tig had Bobby Elvis and Opie laughing in disgust at what he planned to get up to at a cathouse up the way. They opened the double wooden doors, to see Gemma standing by the bar.

"Clay, you got a call in the garage."

"Shit. Can't leave me alone for one goddamn day…" Clay grumbled, and walked as if to exit the clubhouse and go to the garage.

"Clay, I took the message. It's Indian Hills. Somebody's coming, some shit went down or something and they need you. They're coming tonight." Clay swallowed and shook his head.

"Better prepare ourselves for some company then, baby."

The party was already in full swing as the sound of distant bikes could be heard coming from the darkness. The Sons had been joined by whores and old ladies, and the bluegrass music was pounding from the speakers. Glass smashing and men cheering as they arm wrestled and downed shots drowned out the noise of the bikes until the last second, when the roar of the engines was outside the doors. Someone behind the bar turned the music down, and Clay moved to the front door in order to welcome their guests as the engines idled, and switched off. Three people walked into the clubhouse, taking off their coats and dropping large bags on the floor. Their jackets were patched with Sons of Anarchy: Nevada. The first biker, a middle-aged man with a straggling beard and a large scar above his left eye, took off his glove and held his hand out to shake Clay's.

"Brother, how are things?" Clay hugged the stranger, and realised that behind him was a woman and a man, around the same age and of similar appearance. The woman, in tight jeans and a SAMCIN shirt, was talking to the man, who seemed confused and upset. At hearing Clay's voice, she spoke in a low voice without turning.

"Who are you to call him brother?"

"Excuse me? I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting your friends, JP," Clay sneered at the older biker. JP looked over his shoulder.

"Smiling, keep your voice down. Take Lawrie to get a drink."

"Bu-but I don't wanna drink, JP!" The confused looking man stuttered, his words sounding muffled somehow, as the woman steered him towards the bar.

"Lawrie. You want a drink. Now Clay, I was wonderin' if we could make ourselves at home in your meeting room. Just the three of us." JP looked at Clay intently, and as Clay examined him he noticed the sticky redness of blood seeping through his shirt.

"Of course brother. Jax, clear the table and we'll check you over. Tig, grab a bottle of whiskey. Someone call Tara!"

"This? No, not for this," said JP quietly, touching the spot and wincing. "But if you want Jax there, that's gonna make this the five of us."

"Sure, we'll make a space for Lawrie at the table. Whatever you want." Clay started to pull JP towards the wooden doors, glancing at Lawrie and Smiling who were over at the bar.

"Not Lawrie. Smiling."

Clay laughed before he could stop himself.

"You're bringing a sweet butt? To my table? Brother, that is some disrespect."

"She's no sweet butt, Clay," said JP as he lowered himself into a chair in the clubroom with Jax's assistance.

"Well, she sure doesn't look like your old lady much either, but whatever goes," Clay replied, pouring JP a glass of water. "Jax, go and get this girl, whoever she is." Jax nodded, and walked over to the bar, picking up a bottle of Jack Daniels as he went. Reaching the bar, he tapped the blonde woman on the shoulder, and felt her tense.

"You Smiling?"

"Not right now." She turned around and looked Jax square in the face, and he felt himself draw a sudden breath. "Let's get this over with."

In the safety of the locked club room, with Tig against the door, Jax allowed himself to look at the woman again. Tall and willowy, her blonde hair was pinned up at the back of her head and was streaked with blood. Green eyes glittered, large and alert, and her skin was tanned. She was wearing a little make up, and her nose stud shone in the light. Her shirt was ripped by the hip, and at the neck revealing a necklace on a silver chain, and her jeans were covered in dust, blood and the smell of gunpowder. But the thing that had shocked him was the one thing he couldn't stop staring at; the two long, thin scars that went from the corners of her lips out to the very edges of her cheeks.


End file.
